Poor little rose, I pity you—
Sweet as Oporto's wind when fruity—
Tortured an evil hour or two,
Just to adorn a wilful beauty.
I know her well, too well, alas!
(Just watch the fairy as she dances.)
She wears my heart—but let that pass;
It's dead: she killed it with her glances.
Your fate, poor rose, is such as mine,—
To be despised when you are faded;
Yet she's an angel—too divine
To be by you or me upbraided.